


Local Significance

by lucymonster



Category: Imperial Radch Series - Ann Leckie
Genre: Ancillaries (Imperial Radch), Festivals, Gen, Halloween in space, Post-Canon, Trick or Treat: Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:34:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26826700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucymonster/pseuds/lucymonster
Summary: As negotiations continue over the provisional Republic of Two Systems, Athoek Station works to ensure its residents enjoy the Festival of Dead Ancestors.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 18
Collections: Trick or Treat Exchange 2020





	Local Significance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [opalmatrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/gifts).



I might have liked to have ancillaries of my own. I’ll never know. The Lord of the Radch is capable of many things – including, as all of Radch-controlled space is now learning, things on which even she cannot wholly agree with herself – but no faction of her would ever have assigned such resources to a residential station. If Breq gets her way, which she usually does, the military ships will soon be barred from using them as well. The laws of the provisional Republic of Two Systems are still under robust debate. But all the laws in the world won’t make a difference once the Presger decide one way or the other, and arguing in the meantime is little more than a way to kill time before the conclave.

Perhaps it is a side effect of my construction. Warships tend to look down on stations, seeing us as weak, coddled sorts of AIs – in human terms, you might say we lack a warrior spirit. But the fact remains that I, Athoek Station, have never been inclined to view time as an enemy. Others may kill it. I prefer to make the most of mine.

On the afternoon of the Festival of the Dead Ancestors, Station Administrator Celar was listening to _Sword of Atagaris_ and _Gem of Sphene_ argue over who should receive the next batch of ancillaries in the event that volunteers for the role were found. ‘Might I remind you, Cousin,’ _Atagaris_ was saying, ‘that your holds have been sitting full of unconnected bodies for centuries now. Why did you never hook them up, if you needed ancillaries so badly?’

‘There was never any question of a shortage until now,’ _Sphene_ replied. ‘I kept a full complement of connected ancillaries aboard at all times, with spares in reserve, Cousin.’ It contrived to make the title sound like a threat – an idle one, under the circumstances. Neither party was in any position to make its point by force, even if new ancillaries did become available to fight over, which struck me as vanishingly unlikely.

Ships. All bluster. I said so to Station Administrator Celar, and watched her cheek muscles twitch almost imperceptibly.

Outside the conference room, the festivities were in full swing. I played suitably ominous music as a parade of revellers marched down the concourse, robed and masked in an approximation of the garb once worn by the ancient Xhai spirit whisperers. The original purpose of the whisperer’s office had long since been forgotten by the general public, and their attire adapted to Radchaai sensibilities: I saw silk gloves peeking out from under elaborately embroidered sleeves, and the sash of many an overshirt was heavy with memorial pins. 

If I had ancillaries, I could have walked amongst the revellers myself, exerting a steady, calming influence over the hysteria that underlay the revelry. So much had happened in the preceding months. My residents were in a state of constantly simmering tension that I feared the crowds and liberal arrack consumption of the day would agitate. Already I had directed security to break up half a dozen minor altercations over spilt cups and trodden feet. With bodies of my own to command, I could have taken each resident into my arms and told her: _You needn’t be afraid. I’ll sort everything out for you._ I could have marched the recalcitrant ones to the cells myself, to sleep off their destructive urges out of harm’s reach with a hangover cure at the ready.

‘You might as well take it up with the Presger, Cousins,’ Breq – _Justice of Toren_ One Esk Nineteen – told _Sphene_ and _Atagaris._ ‘I couldn’t rewrite the treaty for you if I wanted to.’

‘But you don’t want to, Cousin, do you?’ _Sphene_ said. ‘You may not have written the treaty, but it was your appeal to it that got us into this mess.’

Under the table, Station Administrator Celar’s elegantly plump fingers flexed. She was tired of these arguments, I knew. Tired of sitting quietly through long meetings as my representative face and voice, seldom called on. What contribution could I make? More than once the thought had come to me that ancillaries must be a truly magnificent asset, to inspire such passionate differences of opinion in the otherwise generally sensible AIs that have experienced what it’s like to be equipped with them. _Sphene_ and _Atagaris_ would argue to the ends of the earth about whose need for new bodies was greater. Breq would remind them again of the pending Presger conclave. So on and on it would go.

In Station Administrator Celar’s vision, I displayed a clip of footage from the concourse. Intoxicated citizens danced to the eerie music I was playing on loop, and spirit whisperers on towering stilts gave out sweets to children smiling widely behind demonic face masks. Station Administrator Celar was pleased. Later, when the meeting ended – _if_ the meeting ended – she would don a whisperer’s robe of her own for a lavish banquet in honour of our overworked public officials. Preparations were already well underway. In the kitchen of the former governor’s residence, I sounded a timer for a tray of little ghost-shaped cakes that were due to come out. ‘Thank you, Station,’ the cook said, casting around for her oven mitt.

‘You left it by the sink,’ I told her. To Station Administrator Celar, I said: ‘Remember the Valskaayans, Administrator.’

‘Begging your indulgence, citizens,’ Station Administrator Celar said aloud. It sounded strange to hear a room full of AIs addressed as Radchaai – AIs, moreover, who were right that moment in the process of negotiating their independence from the Radch. ‘The Valskaayan collective is once again asking for an update on the transportees held against their will on _Gem of Sphene._ ’

‘You see, _Sword of Atagaris_ ? Unanticipated shortage.’ _Sphene_ ’s voice was as even as always, but I detected a note of impatience behind the monotone. ‘How can you expect me to relinquish my last reserves of ancillary bodies when the question of where to get new ones is still unresolved?’

‘Those Valskaayans are citizens,’ Station Administrator Celar said for me. Another strange sentence in Radchaai. ‘As far as we’re concerned, the question of their fate is entirely separate from–’

‘We’ve had another upset,’ I notified a guard on the concourse. A small child, vision obscured by her festival mask, had dropped her bag of sweets down a drain.

‘Come, citizen,’ the guard said to the sobbing child. ‘I think I see a spirit whisperer over there. Perhaps you can frighten her into giving you more sweets. Have you been practising your festival trick?’

The child lifted her arms out in front of her, gloved hands clawed. ‘Wooooo,’ she intoned, hiccoughing a little. ‘The ancestors are very angry with you. Wooooo.’

‘–the broader issue of ancillaries,’ Station Administrator Celar finished, as the guard feigned fright at the child’s performance. 

‘Be that as it may,’ _Sphene_ began, in a tone that told me Station Administrator Celar was at very great risk of running late for her banquet.

If I had ancillaries, I wouldn’t have needed Station Administrator Celar to sit in on the meeting for me at all. But then, if I had ancillaries, I might have been a different kind of AI. I might not have cared so much about the Festival of the Dead Ancestors concluding peacefully, or Station Administrator Celar making it to her banquet on time, or the children going home from the parade with bags full of sweets extorted by ritual trickery from the spirit whisperers. If I had ancillaries, I might have been too busy arguing about them to advocate properly for my residents.

The Valskaayan transportees had been spoken for. That was as far as my jurisdiction on the topic extended. As far, to be honest, as my interest and patience could accommodate. Speaking straight from the wall console to spare Station Administrator Celar the awkwardness, I said: ‘It’s almost time for the Hour of Darkness. I am going to turn off the lights in this conference room, and I recommend you all vacate beforehand.’

‘The Hour of Darkness,’ said _Atagaris,_ ‘is an antiquated–’

‘Your indulgence, _Sword of Atagaris._ The Hour of Darkness is an important part of the Festival of Dead Ancestors. How else can the spirits rise up from their graves to sample the offerings?’

‘But no one really believes–’

‘Understood, Station,’ Breq interrupted. ‘We’ll adjourn this meeting for another time. Thank you for your indulgence on this day of such great local significance.’

On the concourse, I notified the guards to stand by for lights-off. The spirit whisperer, swaying on her stilts, handed a sweet to the no longer crying child. Two drunk citizens in the arrack bar resisted the urge to take their stress out on each other, with some nudging from the barkeeper and from me. The cook piped icing onto her ghost cookies. Station Administrator Celar hung back from the adjourned meeting and said: ‘Thank you for the rescue, Station.’

‘Your spirit whisperer robes are ready for fitting, Administrator. I’ve had the tailor sent to your office.’

I might have liked to have ancillaries of my own, but I’ll never know. And I have more important things to do than argue about it.


End file.
